


The Earth Will Beam With Radiance

by midautumnnightdream



Series: The Future is Thine [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, This Light Is Symbolic, canon era AU, everything is still pain, gratuitous candlestick symbolism, implied PTSD, late night philosophy, tbf Hugo started it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 01:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midautumnnightdream/pseuds/midautumnnightdream
Summary: In a world where Enjolras survives the barricades, he and Jean Valjean have a much-needed conversation.





	The Earth Will Beam With Radiance

It was a familiar sight, nowadays, for the denizens of the Rue de l‘Écharpe and the Rue Saint-Louis: an elderly man, of formidable build, but reduced, as it seemed; his broad shoulders and back bent under the weight of some invisible burden, white head bowed and eyes dull, standing on the street corner, unaware or heedless of the annoyance of the passerbyes who had to step around him, or the mockery of the children following his course. Any moment now, the urchins knew, the man would turn around and make his way back past Blancs Manteaux, to Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie and from there to Rue de l’Homme Armé, where he kept residence. His route was well known to them, for it never changed, only shortened in length, as if a swing of pendulum that was no longer wound up.

So preoccupied was the man by his private grief, that he failed to notice a new presence at his side, remaining unaware of the close scrutiny until the sound of his assumed name forced itself into his reverie.

„Are you quite all right citizen Fauchelevent?” Startled as he was, it nevertheless took him a long moment to focus, and another to raise his gaze, only to find a pair of troubled blue eyes looking back at him.

Of course. Who else would address him in such manner?

“Monsieur Enjolras. Ah, citizen. Excuse me. What brings you here?”

The man’s countenance eased somewhat at his response, something almost akin to relief flickering across his face, but his brow remained furrowed as his eyes tracked Jean Valjean up and down. The discerning gaze was familiar; the same careful judgement that had once measured the ageing volunteer on the barricade, the same banked fire, tempered though it was by the shadows of grief and loss. The man looked significantly less haggard than he had upon their first re-introduction, but not for the first time, Jean Valjean was reminded of Fantine, made otherworldly by trials of spirit and body. A peculiar thought perhaps, but Cosette’s mother was never far from his thoughts these days.

„I was speaking with Marius Pontmercy. He said you have once again taken up residence at Rue de l’Homme Armé.” The troubled look didn’t fade. “Citizen, you are not well. Is your apartment nearby?”

Marius? Now that was a surprise, more than it should have been. While the young Baron Pontmercy had been much relieved to find himself not the only survivor from the fighting at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and had indeed retained contact with number of others who shared connections to the ill-fated barricade, he had started to distance himself from the political world following his marriage, worried that such associations might bring trouble upon his wife. The prosecution and the trials of the insurgents who had held fort at Saint-Merry, which had taken place at late autumn, had been a particularly sharp reminder that many of said associations were still very much in precarious positions.

At the time, Jean Valjean had been both relieved and troubled by that development, while remaining careful not to explore either impulse too closely. Now, coming face-to-face with this painfully familiar half-stranger, it seemed to him as if he was witnessing his own grief reverberating back in the air between them. Why would Enjolras be looking for Jean Valjean? Certainly the other man wasn’t alone and aimless as he was, for all that he, too, must be feeling the jagged edges of too many empty spaces in his life.

Perhaps this was it, this odd fellow-feeling, which kept him from rebuffing the young man and insisting upon his enforced solitude. As it was, he accepted the offered arm almost despite himself, taking care not to lean too heavily on his companion: Enjolras was not a short man, but Jean Valjean was taller still and would have made a heavy burden even before the night that took its toll from both of them. Neither man said much as they made their way back to the Rue de l’Homme Armé. Jean Valjean directed the way to his apartment, yet hung back when faced with his concerned portress, letting his companion exchange a few words with her, only giving a short sharp shake of his head, when asked whether he required a doctor. Eventually the good lady retreated, somewhat appeased by the fact that for once, his lodger didn’t seem to be spending his evening alone, and the pair made their way up the stairs.

The habit of social engagement is a peculiar thing; in a position of self-imposed exile, faced with company he hadn’t expected nor wished for, Jean Valjean nevertheless found himself directing his visitor towards one of the rickety chairs, as he turned to look for refreshments, realizing too late he had nothing to offer but tepid water in a pitcher that had spent far too long gathering dust on top of the chimney-piece.

With nothing else to do with his hands, Jean Valjean reached instead for the heavy silver candlesticks, placing them in the middle of the table with a slow, deliberate movement, took his time searching the drawers for fresh candles, placing them, lighting them. Buying time for – what? He couldn’t have said.

If Enjolras was perturbed by the strange ceremony, he gave no indication, content to observe his host’s activity with mild curiosity, neither presumptuous nor uncomfortable. Clearly intending to wait for him to speak first, however long that took.

For his part, Jean Valjean stood still for a long moment, watching his handywork, his mind filled not with flickering flame but with scorching sun, reflecting on the bishop’s mitre and loaded cannons equally, and then with the steady stream of moonlight on burnished silver, flooding the bed of a man secure in the deep sleep of the righteous. If Jean Valjean had ever slept this easily, he couldn’t recall it. _What is it about the suffering, that it brings_ _some of_ _us_ _so_ _low and yet renders others sublime?_ If he closed his eyes, Jean Valjean knew, he could still feel them both: the irons biting into his wrists, and the travelling staff grasped in his hands, ready to strike. _The cause of it? The_ _certainty_ _of_ _purpose_ _?_ But then, looking into the shadowed eyes of the young man across his table, Jean Valjean knew he was no stranger to troubled sleep either.

He took a deep breath and slid into his own chair. If this was a confession, it had to start from somewhere.

-

“You said you spoke to Monsieur Pontmercy. Are you perhaps here on his behalf?” The hope was ludicrous, wild, and yet it wouldn’t leave him alone. Better to get it out of the way.

Enjolras’ answer was careful, almost deliberately neutral. “Marius did not ask me to come. He did, however, tell me where to find you.”

“I see.” A deep breath. Then the next one. “Did he say… anything else?”

“He explained some of what has transpired between the two of you, yes.” Enjolras frowned, clearly somewhat displeased by the situation. Not that Jean Valjean could blame him. “I must say, his explanations left a lot to be desired and he himself seemed to have a rather confused understanding of some of the details and was in clear error about others. I do not presume to understand his thinking,” his lips pressed together, an undercurrent of anger that had Jean Valjean drawing back as if burned. “or some of the… choices he has made recently, but he’s evidently having some doubts, or he wouldn’t have shared even that much.”

 _Doubts_. Jean Valjean knew better, he truly did. And yet he couldn’t contain the wild current of hope that shot through his heart and mind, or the words that tripped over his tongue in a hurry to get out. “Does that mean.. I wouldn’t expect his pardon, or hers, of course not, no. But do you think they might consent to see me, just one more time..” his voice cracked despite his best effort. Jean Valjean drew a deep breath, pleading, cajoling, even as he denied himself in words. “she would come, wouldn’t she? Cosette – Madame Pontmercy – she has such a kind heart, surely she would...”

Enjolras frowned, for the first time looking genuinely thrown off-balance. “I was under the impression that madame Pontmercy has been kept in the dark about both your past and your current whereabouts.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Jean Valjean rubbed his eyes. “She doesn’t know, how could she? To tell her the truth would be to break her heart. That is unthinkable. Monsieur Pontmercy does not agree with me on much any more, but there is no one more devoted to her happiness and well-being.”

“And yet you would have her forgiveness.” Enjolras noted, perturbed. “Forgiveness which cannot be provided from a place of ignorance, and her presence, which is certainly impossible when you claim to have left the city.”

Jean Valjean bowed his head.

“I cannot claim to know Madame Pontmercy well,” Enjolras continued carefully. “But would not both of these thing be better sought in her company, rather than shutting yourself away and having you both suffer from it?”

“She suffers still?” the bowed head shot up, the expressions of concern, joy and guilt fighting for dominance on weathered face. “How can that be? She has seemed to be content, happy with her husband and settling into the life she was always meant to have...”

The look that Enjolras returned him was one of genuine bemusement. “What does that mean? A world doesn’t stop. No matter what happens...” His voice faltered for a moment. “No matter what we lose, there is always going to be more. New obligations. People. Hopes and dreams. There is much there that we must live for, but our families don’t just stop being something we need, even when they are lost to us.” The small smile might have looked brittle, were it not suffused so much affection still. “Forgive me. I don’t pretend to have an intimate understanding of either of your feelings, but grief – grief I know, and hate to see brought about needlessly.”

“Needlessly? If only it was so.” Jean Valjean sighed, his gaze now firmly fixated on the candlesticks in front of him, as if they held answers to his heartbreak. “Monsieur Pontmercy must not have told you enough, or you wouldn’t make those claims with such a conviction.”

“He told me enough to know that you and I have something in common.” Enjolras shook his head. “I confess I don’t understand. You never seemed to begrudge me my welcome in the Pontmercy household, or Marius for extending it, even though the danger brought about by my presence was far more immediate and potentially more harmful. Surely you knew that had you objected, Marius would have bowed to your judgement, for all that he disregarded his grandfather’s?”

A compelling argument indeed. The circumstances of Enjolras’ survival at the barricades had led to a wild goose chase of the most peculiar kind in the days after the revolt, when it became clear that there was no one in Paris both able and willing to confirm the identity of the leader of the Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade. Jean Valjean, keeping an ear down for both his own and Marius behalf had heard rumours of thwarted investigations, when even the denizens of the Chanvrerie street, so demonstrably unsympathetic towards the revolutionaries during the final hours of the insurrection, had turned strangely taciturn on the subject of their leader, recalling no names or notable incidents, or anything but the most generic physical description. After all, Paris was full of young blond men, and when it came to this specific one, there were numerous eyewitnesses willing to confirm his presence in half a dozen locations all over the city during the 5th and 6th of June, all of them just controversial enough to ring true, but not enough to prompt arrest without a compelling evidence of wrongdoing. And of course, the only man who could have solved the mystery without a doubt, had chosen for himself a wet grave under the Pont au Change before anyone realized there was a question to be asked.

What Enjolras himself thought of the situation, Jean Valjean had no idea; from the outside perspective, the younger man had seemed to accept everything with almost unearthly equanimity, acknowledging both the advantages and boundaries the fate had handed him and, as soon as he was able, set about adjusting them to the best advantage of the cause he served with more devotion than ever.

Nevertheless, the odd matter of circumstance was no guarantee of safety to Enjolras himself, or anyone associated with him. Jean Valjean shook his head. “I confess I had my reservations, but that decision was for Monsieur Pontmercy to make. Cosette – I mean, Madame Pontmercy” he winced. “– was very insistent that her husband’s friends should be made welcome and you know she has developed her own friendships in these circles.” If anything, her growing interest in politics worried Jean Valjean far more than her husband’s associations, but he had seen first-hand how much Cosette appreciated the company of young Musichetta in particular, and was privately grateful to mother Hucheloup for roping Toussaint into the business of restoring her wineshop and thus retaining her presence at the fringes of Cosette’s life, even after she left her job.

Enjolras inclined his head, “Indeed, Madame Pontmercy has been very welcoming.” The gaze fixed on Jean Valjean now was no less disconcerting in the darkening room than on the summit of the barricade. “Marius said she insisted on having me over for dinner before he had a chance to tell her more about me than that we fought together and police may or may not be looking for me. Of course, one could attribute that to youthful enthusiasm and inexperience, but never has she expressed anything but concern and goodwill towards her husband’s comrades. Whatever reservations she might have, she keeps them to herself.” A pause “And yet you think she wouldn’t offer as much to her own father?”

“I’m not her father.” Would those words ever stop tasting like lead on his tongue? “There is no relation between us. I knew her mother, briefly; she came to harm because of my inactions. Seeing to her daughter’s well-being was the least and the most that I could do, for there was no one else. Too many children become superfluous under such circumstances, you know that well. They slip through the cracks and no one hears their cries. I found a lark who had fallen from her nest, I sheltered and cared for her, and let her fly free. She loves me, that is true, but it is a child’s love for a stranger who was kind to her when others had been cruel. It is based on lies.”

He sighed, pressed his hands against the tabletop, examined the flicker of candlelight against the rough fingers.

“I have been dishonest to her for as long as I’ve known her. I have wormed into her affections from a position of unfair advantage, from her childhood vulnerability. That is one matter. For another,” He took a deep breath. “you say that we have something in common, and perhaps from the standpoint of social condemnation that is true. But everything that you and your companions did, you did with the good of humankind in mind. I cannot say I agree with all your methods, or understand all that you were trying to achieve, but I know your intentions and I admire them. My circumstances” He takes a deep breath. “My crimes. Were quite different. Nineteen years in galleys… you have no idea what that does to a man. That place, it is a poison. Better, stronger men than me have been broken by it. These days I wonder, perhaps there are saints even in places such as this, men who come out from there with determination rather than bitterness in their hearts, but I was not one of them. I was reduced to dust, no more. I fell deeper than you could comprehend and I was forgiven. I kept trying and failing and still causing more damage than I could have ever wished for. There are places from which there is no coming back. I do not belong to any family and certainly I’m not suitable for company such as Madame Pontmercy, now that desperation doesn’t force it.”

Enjolras had been quiet for a long time, his head bent as if in acceptance and his expression one of focused attention when Jean Valjean said his piece. But as the silence fell, he stirred and raised his gaze.

“Citizen, I hear you and I cannot agree.” There was this strange look again, that smouldering blue fire that shouldn’t look so similar in a revolutionary faced with injustice and a prostitute cussing out a mayor. “You said you appreciate our goals and I know you do, from your actions at the barricade. I confess I still don’t understand, fully, the circumstances that brought your there, or the motivations behind them, but the actions you took as one of us were always clear to me, even when others wondered.” His gaze softened a bit, but lost none of the intensity. “That donated uniform, the shoots aimed at helmets, the mattress, even the spy Javert – you were ever acting to reduce harm by any means immediately available, were you not? Because no life can ever be reduced to its weight on the scale of greater good and you won’t kill, or turn a blind eye, no matter what it might cost later, or what form those debts are going to take.” Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment. “I cannot think that is a choice everyone should take. But as far as it’s a moral advantage, it is one that you have over me. And as such I cannot see how anything you have done is worth greater condemnation than I have earned – and I certainly cannot accept your insistence on taking every horror and indignity that you have suffered – nineteen years? – and adding it’s weight on the wrong side of the scale.” He leaned closer, the very picture of an ancient goddess of Justice coming down to the mortal realm to pronounce judgement. “From what I can tell, there is indeed much condemnation to be passed around here – and very little of it is your due.”

A long moment of silence. Jean Valjean opened his mouth, closed it again and buried his head in his hands. It seemed to him that there was something almost unreal about this conversation, as if the words swimming around him were directed to someone else, to some other version of Jean Valjean, who held perhaps something in common with him, but who was not, could never be his road to salvation. He wanted to argue, to rally against the words trapping him in place – there was so much that this strange young man didn’t know, arguments that couldn’t possibly apply to _him_ , but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t –

“Marius seems to be under the impression you killed the spy Javert,” Enjolras said eventually, the quiet voice cutting through the cacophony in Jean Valjean’s head and bringing his thoughts to standstill. He blinked, staring down at the glass of water in front of him – and blinked again. When had that appeared? He certainly hadn’t been the one to pour it. At least, some distant part of him noted, it explained why his guest was looking at him with such apparent concern. He took the glass, mostly out of instinct and need for something to do, as he waited for the words to make sense in his suddenly exhausted mind. Javert. Right. He winced, remembering his company; the one man who had every right to condemn him for that particular decision, even though the inspector's own actions had spared him of potentially grim consequences.

Enjolras looked almost apologetic. “Please do not think I’m bringing this up now to accuse you. I heard about the particulars of the inspector’s death months ago, and if I wished to cast blame, I would have done so long before now.” He sighed, looking almost pained. “As I said I do understand and, ah, admire your intentions without agreeing with all of your methods, as you so deftly put it. What I meant to say is that Pontmercy is making his decisions with lesser understanding of the facts than he thinks he possesses. His intentions are good, undoubtedly.” Enjolras sighed. “And he has some very noble impulses, but he has a certain tendency to respond erratically where people he loves are concerned. A mutual friend of ours complained once that he has a habit of substituting the contemplation of his impressions for the investigation of facts and thus confusing conviction for comprehension. But I’ll say that for him: when he realises he has been in the wrong, he throws his heart and soul into making amends.”

There was a long moment of silence as the two men stared at each other. Eventually, Jean Valjean broke the gaze and slowly, very slowly got up from the table, not moving, but leaning against his chair as if it was the only thing propping him up. His heavy, uneven breathing filled the long minutes before he spoke.

“You still do not understand. No, please don’t argue. You do not understand, because you cannot. For men like you, like Monseigneur, even Javert, it is all very simple. An action is either good or bad. You see my behaviour at the barricade and turn it into something noble; you admit that my reasons for being there are beyond your comprehension, but still you must have some idea of them. But you’d be wrong. I did not come there to save Marius. Why I did, I know not. Perhaps to make sure that he died. No, I couldn’t watch his demise, when it was in my power to stop it. And yet, if it had happened through the circumstances beyond my control, why, I would have been relieved. Because it would have kept him away from Cosette and my secrets safe. This is the kind of man I am.” He laughed humourlessly. There was something strangely satisfying about letting the words pour out, finally, _finally_ , even through the mounting horror over burning the last bridge of human compassion still stubbornly held open to him. “This is the kind of man I have always been. Worse, sometimes. I have cheated and lied and told myself I’m acting for good cause. I’ve put a single life ahead of the common good before, and seen the suffering that comes from it. There’s no moral high ground there, I assure you, and yet I would do it over and over again. Yes, the society has hurt me, unfairly, _yes_ , and there was a time, when I’d have torn it all down, not to build a new and better one, but for the pleasure of watching it burn. I have watched a sleeping man – a good, kind man – and contemplated bashing his head in. Only months ago I watched your friend Marius, injured and helpless and entertained the same thought. So much for valuing life. And here we are and you’re still convinced this is all one great misunderstanding. Why? You are an idealist, not a fool. Yes, I heard about that man, that Le Cabuc.” His eyes still fixed on the tabletop, he could pretend he didn’t sense the other flinch, but the guilt flooded his heart all the same. “You see, even now I’ll hurt you deliberately. But you’re still here? Why? Why any of this, if not because I’ve somehow managed to deceive all of you into thinking I’m a better person than I...” the words finally failed him, his mind finally catching up with his tongue and forcing it to standstill. His eyes were burning, his breath coming in short gasps, as he all but collapsed back into his chair and buried his head into his hands, his own words echoing through his mind in horrifying spiral. What was _this_ , what had he _done_?

Afterwards, he could never say how long they sat like this. The first thing he became aware of again was the flickering of the candlelight, unexpectedly close to the eye level. When had they burned so low? The second was that the room itself had grown almost dark.

The third thing was the warm hand on his shoulder.

It took all of Jean Valjean’s remaining strength of will to look up to meet his companion’s eyes, but after such an outburst, the fact that he was still there had surely earned him at least that much. Not unexpectedly, he found that he couldn’t look away.

“Why indeed? Why anything?” The voice was little more than a whisper, with all the softness and power of a hymn. Slowly, deliberately, Enjolras stepped away from him, reaching for the drawer Jean Valjean had already opened once that evening. Bringing out two fresh wax candles. “Why do people reach out to each other? Why fight for a better world? Why act to spare lives when you could turn away. Why act at all, when it seems like there’s nobody who sees, or hears, or cares?”

He turned to light the fresh candles from the old ones. The room lit up for a moment, but even as the light steadied, it remained brighter than before, for now there were four candles, two of them bright and steady between slender ink-stained fingers and two more, their shape lost and their flame uneven, but still bright and warm against burnished silver. Enjolras remained standing still, as if mesmerized by the play of light, but Jean Valjean knew better than to believe his attention had wavered, even as he himself found it impossible to look away from the strange tableau before him. Eventually Enjolras spoke again.

“I appreciate you not equating idealism with foolishness –” A sharp intake of breath. “– though I wouldn’t have chosen that particular example to illustrate your argument. There is darkness in all of us, I know. You underestimate my familiarity with such, or you wouldn’t have brought it up even as you claim that yours sets you beyond human compassion. If you accept nothing else that I say, believe that I know what it costs to act with the knowledge that it might break something vital inside me. I know what it takes to reach the place in my mind that allows me to kill without hesitation – and I chose this. I chose it once and then I chose it over and over again so that others wouldn’t have to, for such choices are abhorrent and are not made any less so by the necessity, that cruel despot. But the choice was always my own and even when better men died and faced their trials, I kept making the choices that allowed me to continue fighting, because for all that I deserve condemnation, I refuse to accept it meekly from the society that creates it’s own monsters.

What does it do to a person, to have his choices taken from him and to be reduced to those dark places, not through deliberate action, but through the grind of pain and ritual humiliation; to be left helpless as one’s humanity is taken away from him bit by bit, and then to be cast adrift once again, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to – that I cannot comprehend, nor would I claim to. But one does not need to suffer the pain from a wound to see the need for a doctor rather than an executioner. I refuse the current social order the right to judge me – you see this, you accept this. Yet you would have me accept its judgement of those who it has wronged far more than myself and say – “This is how it is meant to be”?

Moreover,” Here Enjolras paused, contemplating the candles in his hands, seemingly heedless of the hot smears of wax making their way downwards and burning his fingers. “You would make me complicit in this miscarriage of justice. You and Marius both – I certainly wouldn’t wish to betray either of your confidences, but to accept this – to turn away and feign ignorance as you bury yourself in your self-flagellation, while Madame Pontmercy frets and wonders, while Marius keeps his doubts to himself – that would be a betrayal of everything I still claim to value. Better that I should go and turn myself over to government’s justice tomorrow, for I would be reduced to a hypocrite of the worst kind.”

He paused for a moment taking in the Spartan room. A smile without humour flickered over his fair features. “Or perhaps I should take up residence with you, and achieve the same result. This is a jail cell, is it not? Answer me this: if it weren’t for Madame Pontmercy, would you be back in the galleys even now?”

Jean Valjean bowed his head in response.

Enjolras sighed. “Why is it that you would place value in any life but your own? Very well, I see it now: you would face the society’s judgement, inequitable as it is, but being denied that, you’d have ours instead, and harsher the better. But you are forgetting something.”

An expectant silence filled the room. Jean Valjean looked up, not saying anything, but allowing the question to ring between them all the same. Enjolras nodded once, sharp, before sitting down again. The stumps of old candles had all but burned down, giving out the acrid smell of the dying light.

“Even within the framework of farcical cruelty that our government likes to call a system of justice, once a trial is commenced, there is a testimony. You have been less than honest with Pontmercy: his explanations do not add up. Of course, he is reacting from a place of fear and disquiet and not thinking everything through as well as he otherwise might have. A court, were it inclined to be fair, might consider dismissing his judgement as compromised.

But of course, this is not a real court and any judgement passed would have an effect on both sides. You would have my hand in your punishment. Am I not owed honesty in return?”

Another long moment passed, before Jean Valjean found his voice. “And if I tell you the truth – all of it – what would you propose to do with it?”

Enjolras considered this for a moment, then reached out his right hand, passing the candle across the table. “Should I agree with your condemnation of yourself – that you do not deserve human company, that you should be kept away from your family – I will leave you alone and keep any secrets you might entrust to me in confidence. It will be as if this conversation never happened.”

Jean Valjean contemplated the proposal and the candle alike, before reaching out and affixing the fresh light in place of the old dying one, similarly heedless of the hot wax on his fingertips. He leaned back, expectant.

The next clause was slower, more careful, but with no less conviction behind it. “And if it seems to me, as we both know is more likely, that the blame for your situation is to be cast in other directions, that there are more injustices committed against you than by you, that Marius, too could be brought to see reason, were he aware of all the circumstances, then I insist that you should be honest with him as well, for you are not the only one who would be affected by judgement passed in haste.”

The candle was on the mid-way across the table, Jean Valjean already half-reaching for it, almost against his own will, before Enjolras went for the killing blow.

“And if I feel that you should be honest with Madame Pontmercy as well, I would beg that you’d at least consider it.”

Silence. Two pairs of eyes met across the table, one of them full of pain. But Enjolras would not be deterred. Eventually, however, he lowered his glance, before raising it again, almost pleading.

“You trusted me once,” he reminded softly. “On the barricade. You hardly knew me and yet you understood full well who and what I was, did you not? You had your own reasons for being there, but when I called orders, you accepted them. Because I had seen that you wouldn’t kill and didn’t try to force your hand. You knew that I wouldn’t demand something that would destroy you morally.”

Another moment passed. Then another. And yet another.

Jean Valjean accepted the candle.

It was almost anticlimactic, he reflected, watching the flame flicker and settle in it’s new place. There was no moment of rushing relief or sudden dread. And he had no more idea what to say, or where to start than he had five minutes ago.

 _A confession._ In a way, he had known it would come to this from the moment he had set the candlesticks down, what must have been several hours ago. And now look at him – two good wax candles spent and he was only just wondering where to start. A short laugh escaped from his lips, tinged with hysteria.

Enjolras startled. “Citizen Fauchelevent?”

Strange, Jean Valjean reflected, as he composed himself. At this fateful moment, there was nothing inhuman about his companion. Hair dishevelled, concerned blue eyes, hands covered with wax and ink stains. Not an ancient goddess after all, just a young man with too many ghosts. A young man who, for whatever unfathomable reason had decided that an old ex-convict’s fate was a matter of utmost importance.

There was something oddly soothing about that thought. Jean Valjean turned it around in his mind, allowing it to settle him. Added it to the other presences there, other people who had looked at him and seen not an ex-convict, not a false mayor or a benevolent stranger, but a person. Jean Valjean, even if they did not call him by that name.

Perhaps that would be a good place to start.

“Not Citizen Fauchelevent, I’m afraid. That name was a gift, or perhaps a loan, but it does not belong to me. The man who bequeathed it is dead and my daughter has exchanged it for a new one. I, too, cannot hold onto it any longer.”

He took a deep breath.

“My name is Jean Valjean. I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles.” There was a taste of mantra to those words, some long-suppressed memory. Jean Valjean poked at it tentatively and tried again.

“I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Citizens, in the future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satan, there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill any one else, the earth will beam with radiance, the human race will love."  
> -Enjolras, 4.12.8


End file.
